


Essential worker

by under_a_linden_tree



Series: Essential worker: the adventures of Javier the postman [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Gen, Letters, Original Character(s), POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: The only things Javier ever delivers to Mr. Crowley's door are junk mail and parcels from an online gardening shop, or on occasion, something that seems to be a vinyl, judging by the size and weight of the wrapping. Well, that was – until now.On day 40 of the lockdown, there's a letter.
Series: Essential worker: the adventures of Javier the postman [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048117
Comments: 55
Kudos: 231
Collections: Soft Lockdown Reading Material





	Essential worker

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to my beta-reader Liquid_Lyrium and to fenrislorsrai, who sparked the initial idea behind the fic!

Javier is a postman. He’s always been a postman. It’s not much of an exaggeration, he started when he was sixteen and now, at age 43, he’s still kicking it in his uniform, with his smart motorroller and a bag of letters, flyers and small parcels.

Javier loves his job, as a general rule. It gives him a lot of opportunity to be outside, to move around the city and enjoy whatever spectacle London has to offer on this particular day. Sure, there’s some people who are incredibly rude to him, some who are never around to accept their parcels and then go on to file complaints with his boss[1] and sometimes, it’s raining cats and dogs for days on end.

But there’s also nice people. Old Mrs. Babinsky who lives with a view of the park and offers Javier pirogi whenever she makes them (usually, she makes them gluten-free for Javier’s daughter, she’s an angel of a person). Sam who lives on the sixth floor and always waves at him from the window before jogging downstairs to get their parcels. Mr. Alfred who tells him about the content of every parcel he ordered because he knows Javier is a curious guy. And there’s the odd cases, a few people where Javier doesn’t know what to make of them, but damn him if he isn’t trying to find it out.

With the lockdown going on, Javier has a good deal more work (he’s essential after all, who’d have guessed that!) but he also gets to see some interesting things. People have started writing letters again and they order the strangest little things online. He has noticed a sudden influx of toys, of canned food and of inappropriately cheery flyers with taglines such as _We’re all in this together!_ or _What the world needs now is love_.

The most interesting things that have happened, however, concern that one particular flat in Mayfair, where the mysterious Mr. Crowley lives. Well, Javier wouldn’t exactly call him mysterious, it just sounds a lot more exciting than it is. If he were honest, he’d rather say that he sometimes worries if Mr. Crowley is all right. He clearly lives alone in that flat of his and he never gets any personal correspondence, which gives Javier the impression that he might be lonely. The only things he ever delivers to that door are junk mail and parcels from an online gardening shop, or on occasion, something that seems to be a vinyl, judging by the size and weight of the wrapping.

Well, that was – until now. It started out inconspicuously enough. 

On day 1 of the lockdown, Javier delivered another parcel from that gardening shop. He’s looked it up a while ago, it’s one of those fancy hipster sites that are all about giving your plants nutritional pills or stuff like that; seems kind of weird to Javier, but if it makes Mr. Crowley’s plants grow, why not. He must be spending a whole bunch of money on them, though, because those things aren’t cheap.

On day 5 of the lockdown, Javier delivered the first precariously clattering set of wine bottles to his flat. All right, there’s not much to do inside and a bit of drinking can pass the time, who is he to judge.

 _However_.

He also delivered a set of wine bottles on days 8, 13, 19, 25 and 29. Now, Javier doesn’t judge on principle, he shouldn’t he’s a postman – yeah, all right, he might judge Mr. Crowley if he weren’t busy worrying about the poor guy. Such a large amount of alcohol cannot be good for anyone and Javier _knows_ that Mr. Crowley has no-one to share them with. The fact that they were interspersed with more gardening tools didn’t make it any less worrying.

On day 30 of the lockdown, a stray bit of junk mail came in again. Javier had been wondering when they’d start bothering him again.

On day 36 of the lockdown, there was something entirely new among Mr. Crowley’s post: A parcel from a book retailer. It was slim, it was light, but it was definitely a book. Javier was honestly surprised. Mr. Crowley ordering a book, imagine that! Perhaps it was a book on plants…[2]

On day 40 of the lockdown, there was a letter and that’s the crux. Mr. Crowley has never received a letter. Javier has delivered Mr. Crowley’s mail for seven years and he has _never ever_ received a real letter.

And yet, here it is. Soft but heavy quality paper, gentle against his palm. It should be rougher, shouldn’t it, this kind of paper? It soaks up the ink perfectly. The stamp sits neatly in the upper corner, one of those expensive limited-edition-John Constable-or-whoever-it-is things. Heck, it’s even _sealed_ , with some proper wax[3]. It’s not even the red kind you get at renaissance fairs or at a drugstore during carnival, no; it’s soft, bright green and stamped with an ornamental seal.

Not matter how often he checks it, the letter is still addressed _Anthony J. Crowley, Esq_. How lucky one must be to receive such a beautiful thing!

On the way home, Javier wonders who would send a letter like this. It’s terribly old-fashioned. Perhaps it’s Mr. Crowley’s parents – maybe even grandparents? But who would address their own child with middle initial and _esquire_ on a private letter? No, that sounds more like a business thing, but then again, the paper’s far too expensive for that. Dammit. He _really_ should have checked the sender but he was far too distracted by the stamp and wax seal.

On day 43 of the lockdown, Javier is surprised to have a delivery to Mr. Crowley’s place again. Parcel deliveries have been constricted to Saturdays, so he only has letters and flyers today, but there it is, another heavy letter. It reads _Anthony J. Crowley, Esq._ once more. Javier checks and yep, it’s the same green wax. This time around, he makes sure to check the flip for a name, and there it is: _A. Z. Fell_. Hmmm. That doesn’t help a lot, but it probably rules out a family member.

Day 45 brings _another_ letter. Same sender, same paper, same wax. _Different front_. It now reads _A. J. Crowley_ and the stamp shows a snake wrapped around a branch. Javier shivers. He hates snakes.

By day 49, Javier is no longer surprised to see a letter addressed to Mr. Crowley in his bag. He is about to slide it through the door when he suddenly notices an odd smell. Letters aren’t supposed to smell… _spicy_. Perhaps the paper’s been lying around a bit too long? Javier has never noticed a letter smell like this. Hopefully it hasn’t worn off on any of the other mail.

On day 53, Javier delivers letter number five. This time, he notices the smell a bit earlier and he actually recognises it. He’d noticed it at the grocery store earlier that day, when the cashier’s strong cologne almost made him sneeze. A letter scented in cologne, certainly unusual but not unheard of. Javier smiles when he slides the envelope past the door. Someone’s _really_ going the extra mile here. That leads him to another bunch of questions, though, especially with the bunch of wine he delivered last Saturday.

What kind of information does he even have about Mr. Crowley? Let’s see. Javier only sees Mr. Crowley when he signs for a parcel, but that’s enough to gather a few clues. He’s in his forties, tall, lean, wears a lot of black and sunglasses (some sort of eye condition?). There are three kinds of people who wear all black, edgy ones, depressed ones and those who are both. Mr. Crowley doesn’t really seem like any of these, though. Javier would guess that he probably saw Hamlet in his teenage years and never fully recovered; at least that’s what happened to Javier’s brother and he’s still not over it. And, well, Mr. Crowley sure does drink like a Dane.

He does gardening, a whole lot of that, judging from his parcels alone, but the block of flats doesn’t have a garden attached to it so he possibly grows some plants indoors. Maybe vegetables? Herbs? Cacti? Orchids?

Mr. Crowley also seems to have a good deal of money. Exhibit A: the sheer amount of parcels he orders. Exhibit B: the impeccable (but not very stylish) clothes he wears. Exhibit C: the glimpses he’s caught of the minimal, sleek interior of the flat. Oh, and he’s very polite, never snapped at Javier because he’s late or the package is a little damaged. Yes, he’s a bit grumpy sometimes but Javier’s seen worse.

In the end, all his knowledge about the situation only leads to another question: Who the _hell_ is this Mr. Crowley really? He’d thought he was some mildly flash, successful businessman who tried very hard to be cool and had too little friends and hobbies, aside from his plants maybe.

However, this new string of letters makes Javier question his conclusions.

On day 56, there’s another letter, and Javier realises that cinnamon is one of the notes of the cologne. It starts to smell strangely good to Javier and he feels a sudden wave of comfort rush over him. He almost felt… _blessed_ to have the envelope in his hands. When he tries to slip it through the door, it catches on the metal of the slot, so Javier wriggles it free and flips it over. A red carnation is tucked between the paper and the green wax, vibrant in its colour with perfectly shaped petals. Javier smiles. He smiles again a few hours later when he googles the meaning of red carnations[4].

The Saturday after that, a parcel is addressed to Mr. Crowley in the same neat, flowing handwriting. It has an additional note squeezed in the top left corner: _Do handle with care, please_. There’s a note in Javier’s records that declare it to be foodstuffs. The best thing, though? It’s also from this A.Z. Fell person. He puts it down on the floor and rings the doorbell according to protocol, taking a few steps back.

He hasn’t seen Mr. Crowley in a few weeks, ever since the sudden end to his hitherto seemingly endless orders of gardening tools and when he opens the door a few moments later, there’s something _off_ about him. It’s still early in the morning and Mr. Crowley’s sunglasses are crooked but he’s smiling a genuine smile. It seems that he was expecting the post.

“Delivery for you Mr. Crowley,” Javier says in his best I’m-not-at-all-excited-over-this-and-I-haven’t-tried-to-figure-out-what’s-in-there-voice.

Mr. Crowley picks up the parcel and immediately opens it. Javier tries to catch a glimpse of what’s inside and he spots a few dark fruits – cherries, maybe?

“Cake?” Mr. Crowley say, his voice a little incredulous. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

Javier has to bite back a smile. “Someone has gone all out for you, dude.”

Mr. Crowley doesn’t respond. He’s still staring intently at the content of his parcel, a besotted grin spreading across his face.

“I hope you’re answering all those letters. They deserve it,” he says and enters Mr. Crowley’s name into the protocol of delivered packages.

“He really does,” Mr. Crowley says before closing the door.

* * *

The letters continue through the lockdown and they still remain beautiful with their soft paper, custom seal and an occasional flower tucked beneath it. After the lockdown, however, they stop very suddenly. Javier knows that he shouldn’t be disappointed, but those letters were some of the nicest things among all of his deliveries.

Three weeks after the lockdown ends, there’s another gardening parcel and Javier can’t help thinking _Shit, he’s gone back to the plants. He’s supposed to be out and about with his fellow_. Still, Javier rings the bell as usual and waits. A few seconds later, he can hear steps puttering towards the door.

A chubby man with fluffy hair opens. His clothes look very – what’s the word? Is it retro or is it vintage? – just the opposite of Mr. Crowley, really. He smiles kindly and wishes Javier a good morning, before turning around and calling out: “Crowley, dear, the postman is here.”

Mr. Crowley shows up a few moments later, still in his pyjamas (they’re black, of course they’re black, what would he have expected). He scuffles down the corridor and mumbles something about the blasted sun being way too bright[5]. The other man gives Javier a slightly apologetic smile and takes the parcel from him while Mr. Crowley signs on the handheld device. It takes Javier a moment to see it, but then he realises that Mr. Crowley’s arm is gently settled on the stranger’s hip. So _this_ is the mysterious letter writer.

“Thank you, dear. I hope you have a good day,” Mr. Fell says and oddly enough, Javier feels that it’s already perfect as it can be. He’s just happy to see Mr. Crowley happy.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Honestly, fuck those guys. 70% of the time, it’s the same four people, they should really learn their lessons at some point. There’s a _reason_ why they send out emails with a delivery timeframe, dammit!
> 
> [2] It was not. It was, in fact, a book on crafting. Crowley was so bored by this point that he was thinking about starting origami. It ended up frustrating him, but he managed a couple of proper cranes. Or swans, maybe.
> 
> [3] Javier has seen some half-melted candles on the back of some other letters, irrevocably sticking them to some leaflet or another, impossible to scrape off and with a sickly sweet smell.
> 
> [4] Javier finds these letters very sweet. In fact, he appreciates them more and more. The neighbours, however, don’t, even though they are not aware of their existence. They are only aware of the consequences, which include sudden yells behind the door to flat number 13 and sounds not unlike somebody pacing on the goddamn ceiling.
> 
> [5] Later, Javier will come to ask himself what exactly it was but there definitely was something mildly concerning about Mr. Crowley’s eyes. The only thing he remembers is thinking _Oh that’s what the sunglasses are for!_
> 
> Credit for “Someone has gone all out for you, dude.” goes to the lovely fenrislorsrai!
> 
> Edit (15/11/2020): Currently working on a sequel but due to the situation being what it is, I can't promise I'll post anytime soon.


End file.
